Friendly Neighbourhood Crime Syndicate
by Hired Alibi
Summary: Set almost a year after the completion of the series, Starsky and Hutch decide to fix up an old house, when they discover that one of their neighbours may be involved in a ring of thieves who intend to rob the Museum of Natural History. Infiltrating their organisation, the two detectives soon begin to uncover more sinister plans, the knowledge of which may cost them their lives.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Starsky and Hutch, however much I would like to. Any characters that I have created are fictional and any resemblance to a person living or deceased is purely coincidental. Please excuse any errors about L.A as my knowledge of it is stems from television, Google and playing L.A Noire. Rated T just to be safe, because future chapters are likely to have violence, mild language, etc. Genre is Comedy/Drama/Friendship/Crime and possibly later Romance. Since I can't put all those tags in, I'll just say Crime/Friendship and the rest can be figured out by reading.

**Authors Note:** I hope that this first chapter isn't too boring. It was intended to 'set the scene'. There are hopefully more exciting things to come if you stick with it.

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**Friendly Neighbourhood Crime Syndicate**

Chapter 1

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"I love Saturdays. Ya know what I really love about them? No work; no chasing down scum, no paperwork and no angry Cap! Jus' me, my house, an' my M.I.A partner! The best part is, tomorrow is Sunday!" Starsky heaved a satisfied sigh as he stood on the unkempt front lawn of a decrepit house, staring at the forlorn structure contentedly. It was a beautiful Spring day, the perfect Sunday away from work and stress, and Starsky was so caught up in the serenity of the quiet neighbourhood that he was startled to hear Hutch's voice so close behind him.

"You know I begin to worry when you start talking to yourself, Starsk."

Starsky bristled then relaxed again, pointedly replying, "For your information Mr. Ten-Minutes-Late, I was talkin' to my pet rock." Starsky patted the pocket of his leather jacket and as he turned to face his partner, words momentarily failed him. There was definitely something different about Hutch, in his faded blue jeans and loose-necked brown tee. It was as though he had wiped ten years off his age.

"Lookie look here!" Starsky suddenly cried, having twigged on. "Detective Hutchinson sans one tea strainer! Let me guess, your old jalopy broke down and you had to use your moustache to flag down traffic?"

"Ha-Ha –"

"No wait, your rust-bucket conked out and ya had to use your lip wig for smoke signals!"

"As a matter of fact –"

"Wait, I got it! You were stranded miles from civilisation, with a smokin' engine and nothin' to eat –"

"Starsky! If you must know, my 'faithful mode of transportation' did break down," Hutch replied, humourlessly, self-consciously running a hand over his smooth lip and chin. His hair had also been cropped shorter, glittering blue eyes now not being the only evidence of his youth. If one could call early 30s youthful, that is, which Starsky (being a few months older) most certainly did. "And for your information," Hutch continued, "I happen to think that moustaches are very distinguishing. Unfortunately, I had a date with a lovely lady last night who is attending beauty school…"

Starsky rubbed his hand over his chin. "Say no more! Sounds like a classy lady. Maybe I ought to grow _myself_ a moustache." He mused for a moment, flashed a cheeky grin at his partner, and pivoted back around.

"You killed the cactus I gave you within a month. I wouldn't trust you with a moustache," Hutch quipped.

"I'm glad you think so, because I happen to reckon I'm kinda dashin' just the way I am!"

As Hutch scoffed and stepped up beside him, Starsky threw an arm around his shoulders, his free hand flourishing the air in front of him.

"But that is neither here nor there. I suppose you're wonderin' why I called you here." It was not a question.

"Well, now that you mention it – uh – no. No, I had you pegged from the start. Sorry, Starsk, but you lack basic subtly. "

Starsky eyed Hutch indignantly and whined, "My last paycheck hadn't cleared yet, and Robbie's was havin' a sale on ply wood and assorted timber. Look, just humour me, will ya?" When there were no further objections, Starsky continued, "Now, I know ya weren't so keen on the idea of property development, partner, but let me try'n sell it to ya again."

Hutch sighed, though not with the same enthusiasm as Starsky's had been, and decided to allow his partner to pitch him the idea. He clasped his hands in front of him and stared at the little, rundown house with its broken everything and pitiful lawn.

"Imagine before ya a beautiful two bed and bath, complete with a little white picket fence and a veggie patch out the back!" Starsky practically sang, in perfect imitation of a used car salesman. "A bee-utiful kitchen and dining combined, and a livin' room fit for a king. Could even hang a few potted plants to add a bit o'the outdoors, y'know?"

"All I'm imagining is a concussion when that heap comes down on top of us."

"Aw, come on, Blondie, you're not seeing the big picture here!" Starsky unlooped his arm from around Hutch and stood facing him. "We could fix this place up good an' proper, just you an' I, Hutch. Besides, it'll be a good stress-reliever and it'd help me recuperate from my battle scars." Starksy lifted the bottom of his shirt up slightly, threatening to show Hutch his bullet scars for the bazillionth time.

"Starsky, you have been fit for active duty for the past six months. You're outrunning me again!" Hutch chided, tugging Starsky's shirt back down.

"Yeah, but all them mental scars..." Starsky trailed off and dipped his chin, clasping Hutch's outstretched hand, deep blue eyes lifting to search for his partner's brighter ones. That did it. The classic puppy-dog eyes always did it.

"Your whole brain is a mental scar," Hutch replied, sarcastically, though with an affectionate edge, and pulled his hand free to pat Starsky's cheek. "Alright, Curly, I'm in."

Starsky instantly brightened and clapped Hutch on the shoulders. "Hutch-cha-cha! You won't regret this, partner! I have _big _ideas for this place!"

Starsky grinned and produced the house key from his pocket, hoisting himself onto the porch and immediately sinking his foot through the rotting timber.

"Oh yeah, I see that. Hope your big plans include both legs," Hutch replied candidly, carefully choosing a less perilous route onto the porch, having fallen victim to its less than adequate structure in the past. He had walked away without stepping inside back then, and never thought to look back.

"Very funny, wise guy," Starsky grumped and wiggled his foot free so that he could unlock the front door (which one would imagine would be a useless endeavour to lock in the first place, seeing as most, if not all, the windows were broken). "Welcome to our humble abode!"

If the outside was bad, it couldn't have prepared Hutch for the interior. It was marginally short of being condemned, with its peeling wallpaper, rotting floorboards, suspicious clumps of mould and...

"I think the previous tenant owned cats. Lots and lots of cats."

"Or just one with a real small bladder," Starsky offered, unhelpfully, and with a cautious lilt, lead the way into the depths of their new pet project. It was a small house, complete with what Starsky envisioned to be a welcoming living room, leading into the kitchen, with a hallway on the left guiding towards two adjoined bedrooms and a bathroom at the end. The two off-duty detectives took their time exploring the rooms, visually assessing their work load and discussing their priorities. When the odour became too much, they stepped outside into the back yard, which was quaint although quite overgrown.

"You know there won't be much time for a social life, Starsk," Hutch pointed out as he silently mapped the backyard, mentally plotting his vegetable garden.

"I'm sure your beauty school lady won't be all that happy," Starsky replied a little vexatiously, his tone either unheard or ignored by his partner.

"Truth be told, I don't think we'd make a good fit; she was talking about doing my legs next and something about practicing bikini lines." There was a collective shudder, a hasty clearing of throats and a return to the topic at hand.

After nearly an hour of discussing the house, during which Hutch had become more animated, Starsky's growling stomach decided that a food break was in order. As the two made their way towards the striped Torino, they were greeted by the rumbling of a moving van pulling up across the street, followed by a series of yelling, cussing and the definite tinkle of broken china. Hutch lifted his brows at Starsky, who in turn inclined his head towards the commotion.

"Might as well go and meet the neighbours," Hutch suggested and took off at a casual pace towards the van.

"Ya know, partner, my Ma always said that curiosity killed the cat," Starsky replied, sagely, catching up to Hutch.

"Well that's just fine by me. Our new house smells like it's had enough cats. By the way, how is your Mother?"

"Same as always. Wants to know when I'll be bringin' home a nice Jewish girl; said I'd bring you instead." Starsky grinned as they reached the van, stepping aside to allow two heavily-set men to drag a sofa out.

"Lift with ya knees, fellas," Starsky advised to glares and irritable grunts.

"Hurry up with that sofa, will you?" A frustrated male voice called out, its owner peeking around the side of the van. He was a young man, slightly shorter than Starsky with blonde curls and hazel eyes. At seeing Starsky and Hutch, his pouting glare spread into a warm, albeit somewhat manic, grin.

"Neighbours! I'd offer you boys a brew, but my fridge isn't even inside yet. You sure are quick on the welcoming party though, eh? The name's Tom Richen."

"I'm David, this is Ken," Starsky introduced, he and Hutch shaking Tom's hand in turn. "We're just across the way, fixin' up a place." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and Tom craned around them, whistling.

"Looks like quite the job you fellas have got there – Hey, morons, that vase is antique! Buncha turkeys!" Tom suddenly bellowed. "What was I saying?"

Hutch and Starsky watched as the movers clambered in and out of the van, each time carrying rather extravagant items; antique dining room set, a box labelled 'crystal wine glasses' and a large oriental vase to name a few. Hutch studied Tom; he looked no older than 21 and as a few of the boxes were labelled 'college' and 'chemistry set', he would bet Starsky's pet rock he was only a student.

"That's, uh, quite the collection," Hutch observed.

Tom smiled vaguely, his mouth working slowly as though he were chewing something very carefully. And then, in a tone that blatantly said 'I know I'm lying and you know I'm lying,' he simply stated, "Inheritance from my Grandma. I was always the favourite."

Starsky smiled thinly. "Clearly. Well, we best be off, hey Hutch?"

"Hey, look you guys, thanks for stopping by. You should drop in tomorrow night once I'm all unpacked. My girlfriend'll be here, so it'll be like a date night, or something, eh?"

Starsky and Hutch stared blankly.

"Oh – wait – no, we're not..." Hutch stammered.

"Hey, it's all good! Sexual revolution and all that jazz," Tom replied, waving them off.

"C'mon, Hutch," Starsky said with a nudge, and after an awkward farewell, he and Hutch walked back to the Torino. "That guy sure is somethin'."

"That inheritance story was definitely bogus," Hutch pointed out. "Did you notice the vase?"

"What about it?" Starsky asked as they reached the Torino, pulling open the driver's door as Hutch circled around the back to the passenger side.

"Well, I could be mistaken, but it looked remarkably similar to a piece that was stolen from a Buddhist temple about a month or so ago. You really didn't notice? I even read you out the article."

"Well, I was a bit distracted at the time," Starsky replied, turning the key in the ignition and brining his faithful Torino roaring to life.

"About what?"

Starsky turned and fixed his partner with a dead-pan stare.

"The fact that Tom Richen is, without a doubt, Canadian."

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"It's strange."

"It's Saturday."

"We could look into it, you know."

"It's _still _Saturday!"

"We're cops, Starsk, it's what we do."

"So call it in! Here's the radio."

"But we have an opportunity to uncover something big. Other temples and churches have been hit in the same manner over the past few months."

"Hutch. It's Saturday."

"It's a lead."

Starsky groaned as they pulled up outside The Pits and spent a quiet moment resting his forehead against the steering wheel, feeling Hutch's eyes bore into the side of his skull. He ran a hand over his chest, sucked in a breath and then fixed his partner with a look of childish irritability.

"Fine. _Fine_. We'll look into it. But we gotta play it careful and not let on that we know what he don't want us to know. And that we're cops."

Hutch grinned, patted Starsky's shoulder and hopped out of the car. "For that, I'll buy lunch."

"Are ya sure you can afford it?" Starsky quirked a devilish smile, climbing out of his beloved Torino and making sure it was locked. "All that talk about fixin' up our place and solvin' a crime on the weekend has made me hungry."

Hutch eyed Starsky suspiciously and lead the way into The Pits, greeted by a mixed scent of beer, smoke and home cooking. "You're always hungry."

Starsky shrugged his shoulders and, as per habit, cast his deep blue's over the other patrons, seeking out their long time friend and proprietor, Huggy Bear. He spotted him, dressed in a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark bell-bottoms, white loafers and a matching ascot around his neck. Huggy had set himself up a table towards the back of the establishment and covered it with foot high teddy bears, each adorned with little bows. He was quick to spot the two detectives and waved them over, his best salesman smile plastered to his face.

"Why if it isn't my favourite duo!" He greeted, arms spread wide. "Claudia," he called out. "Get these fine gentlemen their usual."

"With extra chilli!" Starsky added and sent Claudia a wink. She gave a sultry smile and taped the ticket to the turntable, spinning it around for the chef to receive in the kitchen. "So, Hug, what's with all the bears?"

"Dig this, cats. Huggy Bear's Huggy Bears! Lonesome and scared? Reach for a 'Bear'! Need comfort or a snug, grab yourself a 'Hug'!"

"Looks like just a regular teddy bear to me," Hutch observed and raised his brows sceptically at Huggy.

"I dunno, Hutch. It is kinda extra cuddly," Starsky replied, picking up yellow bear and giving it a good squeeze.

"What happened to your pet rock?"

"Sittin' on my windowsill back at the house, lookin' all lonely. C'mon, partner, look how cute it is. I'll call it Mr. Hutchibear."

"What are you, 10?"

Starsky perked a brow and shrugged one shoulder. Hutch sighed. "How much, Huggy?"

"I have a special price for you two! Only $25.00 and I'll throw in an extra bow!"

"How about $15.00; cops discount?" Hutch offered.

"You trying to drive me out of business?" Huggy accused, feigning offence.

"Fine, fine. $25.00, but you throw in that bow and a bit of info about a string of antique robberies from churches and temples."

"Now you're talkin'," Huggy lowered his voice as Hutch forked over the cash, he and Starsky settling themselves into their respective chairs. Huggy sat down opposite them and slid the bears to one side. "About a week ago, I just happened to have audibly perceived some dudes dishing out the details on a heist at the National History Museum on Exposition."

"The Museum ain't no church, Hug," Starsky informed.

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," Huggy replied, sarcastically.

"No no, _I'm _Sherlock, _he's_ Watson," Hutch chimed in with a grin, earning a disdainful glare from his partner.

"I'm failing to see the connection between a buncha guys plannin' to steal a dinosaur and a string o'church thefts," Starsky said, bringing them back to the topic at hand.

"Well, if you had been kind enough to allow me to finish," Huggy replied, smugly, "I would have told you that the cats caterwauling about their church catches, were the same dudes dishin' out dough for in-fo. New players; not from around here, but they seem to have their act together."

"In other words, the same guys who ripped off the churches and temples are going to be hitting the Natural History Museum and are bragging about it?" Hutch summarised.

"Isn't that what I just said?" Huggy replied, indignantly.

"Sounds kinda stupid," Starsky mused, " broadcasting their plans."

"Well, it weren't broadcasting, per se..."

"Just where were you when you overheard this?" Hutch asked.

Huggy cleared his throat. "Well, see, the restrooms needed cleanin' after a less than Kocher batch o' chilli and I just happened to be in the next stall.

Starsky curled his upper lip slightly and swallowed. "Bad chilli, huh?"

"They were meeting in the men's room?" Hutch asked.

"The ladies, actually; the men's room was too far gone. Strange times, my friend, strange times."

"Let's just go back to the chilli for a moment - " Starsky interrupted, apprehensively.

"Here's your chilli, with extra!" Claudia announced, laying the plate in front of Starsky and offering Hutch his usual Caesar Salad. Starsky gave a weak smile, his classic 'thanks, shweetheart' and promptly offered to trade plates with Hutch once the waitress was out of earshot. Hutch made a circle around his plate with his arms to ward Starsky off and directed the conversation back to the thieves.

"Did you catch what those guys looked like, or anything that may be able to identify them?" He asked of Huggy, who shook his head in response. "How about when they were planning on hitting the Museum?"

"No dice, Hutch," Huggy replied. "Those dudes were on a fact finding mission. They were real careful about not usin' names. Reckon three of them were crammed into the one stall an' not once did they hint at who they were."

'It could be Tom," Hutch pondered as Starsky sniffed his chilli anxiously. "What do you think, Starsk? Starsky?"

"I think this chilli smells kinda funky."

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The rest of the Saturday went by as Starsky had initially planned, with the exception of turning down his chilli and having to score a taco at the local stand. He and Hutch had finished up with lunch and had driven back to their house, eventually moving the conversation from a potential new thief ring to the more pressing topic of what colour the kitchen should be. When even that couldn't be decided, the late afternoon saw both detectives standing on the unkempt front lawn of their decrepit house, both staring at the forlorn structure contentedly.

"Tomorrow night we'll visit Tom; try and get on his good side and see if we can muscle into the operation," Hutch said, conversationally, as though infiltrating such a group was the daily norm.

"Y'know, Hutch, they could be pretty small time guys," Starsky replied and when Hutch didn't say anything, he continued, "which is wishful thinkin.'"

"I know how much you love your Sundays, but think about it this way: with Dobey's O.K, not only could we send a bunch of rotten crooks to the slammer, but we will also have more time to work on the house. _And _we get paid for it."

Starsky only had to think about that for a moment, before he flung an arm around Hutch's shoulder. "Alright, alright, I'm sold. But since I'll be stayin' with you for a while at your place, we oughta discuss some meal plans; like steak, hold the veggies."

Hutch glanced to the side at Starsky, brow furrowed.

"What's wrong with your place?"

"I sold it."

"You... sold it?"

"Yeah, to help build our house."

"You sold your apartment."

"So, what's for dinner?"

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**Chapter 1**

**END**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Starsky and Hutch, however much I would like to. Any characters that I have created are fictional and any resemblance to a person living or deceased is purely coincidental. Please excuse any errors about L.A as my knowledge of it is stems from television, Google and playing L.A Noire. Rated T, just to be safe. Genre is Comedy/Drama/Friendship/Crime and possibly later Romance. Since I can't put all those tags in, I'll just say Crime/Friendship and the rest can be figured out by reading.

**Authors Note:** Thank you very kindly for your reviews. I am very humbled by the interest this story has drawn and hope that you all continue to follow Starsky and Hutch's adventure. I apologise if the updating becomes/is a bit staggered as I also have university studies, will be commencing a new part time job, volunteer, and like watching old buddy cop shows, frequently earning concerned looks when I gasp, giggle, gasp again, try to explain the situation to my folks (who don't understand) and then squeal – rinse and repeat.

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**Friendly Neighbourhood Crime Syndicate**

Chapter 2

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"You know I wouldn't contact you on a Sunday morning if it wasn't important, Captain."

There was silence on the other end of the phone, broken only by a gruff, conceding sigh and the unmistakable sound of rustling sheets. Understanding this as a permission to continue with his brief, Hutch settled himself against the head rest of his sofa and launched into what he and Starsky had discovered, thanks to the invaluable information provided by Huggy.

"Six religious establishments; four churches, one Buddhist temple and a Synagogue have been targeted by thieves, each time losing valuable antiques or rare pieces – sculptures, jewellery, a golden Buddha, an oriental vase, for example. Each time, the thieves have been able to get in and get out during sermons or meditation, when the places are most inhabited, but security is lax. The only thing linking the scenes are eye-witness reports of a white van; no make, model, plates or identifying marks," Hutch explained, taking a momentary pause to allow for any questions, and glancing down at his occupied sofa. Starsky was still soundly snoozing, completely wrapped up in his blanket like a cocoon, mouth slightly open.

When only silence met him, Hutch continued, "We – that is, Starsky and I – have reason to believe that these hits were practice rounds, of sorts; trying to build up confidence or a reputation. We also figure our neighbour is involved. Tom Rice-something; he's probably Canadian, new to the neighbourhood. He's young but he's smart and has a curious collection that bears a striking resemblance to some of the items stolen from the churches and temples. Our faithful source seems to think that there are some new players in town that mean big business. It's looking likely that their next target is the Museum of Natural History, out on Exposition. If we can get inside their ring, we may be able to stop something big from going down and send a lot of bad people to the slammer."

Again there was silence and for a moment Hutch considered the possibility that his Captain had fallen back asleep on the other end of the line. He frowned and tapped the mouth piece, hearing the echo in his ear.

"Fine, you have my permission. God knows this has been a big headache," Dobey's hoarse voice replied in a sleepy whisper, startling Hutch. "But play your cards close to your chest. If the kitchen gets too hot, you get your butts outta there. I expect daily reports. "

Hutch breathed a quiet sigh of relief that Dobey hadn't exploded at him and couldn't contain a smile creeping onto his lips. "Yessir. We've been invited to Tom's place tonight. We'll come up with a cover story and worm our way in."

"Good. Get to it then."

"We'll get right on it," Hutch replied and was about to hang up, when Dobey spoke again.

"And Hutchinson?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Next time you call me at 5am, I'll expect your badge on my desk at 9."

_Click._

"I shink you're off 'is Christmas list, pal," Starsky mumbled into his pillow, nose just touching the back-rest of the sofa. One deep blue eye peeked open, spying his already wide awake, fully dressed and groomed partner.

Hutch stared at the phone as though it were a particularly nasty pair of old socks and carefully replaced it in its holster. Though incurring the wrath of Captain Dobey was a daily occurrence, even the biggest sources of his high blood pressure (the dashing duo) knew that contacting him on one of his days off was strictly off the table. But desperate times did call for desperate measures, and with increasing pressure by the local government to solve the spate of robberies on religious institutes, this definitely qualified as necessary. Still, perhaps a packet of gummy bears wouldn't be such a bad idea – no added sugar, of course.

"We'll be off his everything list if we don't catch these suckers, Starsk. Are you getting up now?" Hutch asked, leaning his elbows on the back of the sofa to peer down at Starsky, brows both raised expectantly. Starsky groaned and rolled over, so that his back was to Hutch, snuggling down further into his blanket. "I could whip you up a good, decent health shake," Hutch offered, good-naturedly.

"Waddya talkin' about? We're still asleep."

Hutch furrowed those raised brows, took a shifty glance to the left then right and finally asked the obvious, "We?"

Starsky squirmed in his blanket, shoulders working up and down until finally he pulled a foot high yellow bear, with a dishevelled polka-dot bow, out from under the covers. "Mr. Hutchibear and I, of course," he replied, cuddling his arms around the bear and snuggling back down into the warmth.

"Oh, of course. Forgive me for thinking you were a grown man," Hutch said, sarcastically.

"Don't listen to him, Mr. Hutchibear, he's jus' jealous."

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By the time Starsky had been jostled awake, showered and eaten his usual sugary cereal from his 'Starsky' cupboard that Hutch had created for him (and routinely locked), which consisted of all the good treats he liked to snack on, it was 8:30am and time to return to their house. As per usual, Starsky had left his duvet and pillow neatly folded at one end of the sofa, courtesy of his military training, with Mr. Hutchibear taking up watch on top.

"I hope our house is still standing," Hutch remarked as he hopped into the passenger seat of the red Torino. "Or we may have to call the M.E for your rock."

Starsky slid comfortably into the driver's seat and smiled quirkily at Hutch. "You know, buddy, if this whole house thing works out, you an' I could make a business outta it. Y'know, for when we retire an' all. Waddya think about Startch's Housin' Developmen'?"

"Startch's?"

"Yeah, y'know, it's a blend of our names. I've been takin' some pointers from Huggy. He reckons we could be real on-troopers."

"I think you mean entrepreneurs," Hutch corrected, mechanically, as Starsky started up his beloved automobile and backed out of the driveway. "It's a thought, but don't you think you're planning our retirement a bit early?"

"Ma always says, 'failing to plan is planning to fail'," Starsky recited, not the least bit concerned with Hutch's inflection on the word 'our', and earning an appreciative grin from his partner.

"Speaking of your Mother, does she know you've bought a house?"

"Sure. I told her I was movin' in with a tall blonde. She was thrilled."

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Sunday was relatively uneventful. Having informed dispatch that Zebra 3 were not to be contacted unless in emergency, Captain Dobey had ensured the radio was quiet and allowed both detectives to focus on their house, while systematically planning their infiltration into the potential ring of thieves. This was not to say that the day was boring, however, as cleaning and gutting the house was not only hard, laborious work but also provided several highlights, the least of which was half a wall collapsing and covering them both in a thick layer of dust. Eventually, though, they managed to sweep the majority of the debris out, clear out the broken windows and allow the fragrant Spring breeze to air the place out. It was beginning to appear almost respectable, if one overlooks the poor shape the floor was in and the holes in the walls.

"Well, it's nothing that a good plaster and coat of paint won't cure," Hutch remarked on the walls, hands on his hips as he surveyed their handy work. "The floor will need to be replaced, but that is easily doable in a few days."

Starsky grinned across at Hutch from where he was crouching in the corner of the living room, a large piece of butcher paper in front of him, his dark curls powdered in grey. "My cousin Merle has some great floorboards that we can use."

"I thought he did cars," Hutch replied, creasing his brow thoughtfully.

"He moonlights," Starsky said, simply, "offers a great deal on toilet seats, too!"

Hutch chuckled, leant his broom against a nearby wall and strolled over to his partner, crouching down by him to observe the piece of paper. Starsky had drawn up a rough plan of the interior and had listed their necessities in a column on the left. The house would open up into the living room, with a low half-wall jutting out from the door way, allowing for a short hallway, wall pegs for coats and would lead smoothly into the seating area. Starsky had even drawn in where he thought the sofa, living chairs, coffee table and small television set would go. Hutch was pleased to see that he had also factored in several potted plants.

"Looks good, Starsk, but uh... what's that?" Hutch asked, pointing at a little squiggly-something that had been drawn in the middle of the living room.

"A cat."

"A cat?"

"I thought we'd carry on the tradition."

"You thought –"

"– We'd carry on the tradition, yeah."

"What about your pet rock and Mr. Hutchibear?"

"They're lonely."

Hutch fixed Starsky with a stern, almost parental, look. But he knew before the conversation progressed that if Starsky had his heart set on something, no amount of nagging, logical arguments or pleading would have any affect. Therefore, Hutch offered a compromise, which was standard procedure in this kind of situation.

"Only once the house is completely finished and the old cat smell is gone. And you have to be the one to clean out the litter tray."

"Yessir!" Starsky grinned and cupped his hand at the back of Hutch's neck, giving it a warm, familiar squeeze and saluting with his free hand. Hutch grinned back, despite himself, though was brought back to his senses by way of a slight chill in the breeze. He craned his neck to peer out of the front door, the sky above streaked mauve and pink. He patted Starsky's knee and stood, indicating the other should do the same.

"Reckon we should go and pay Tom a visit?" He asked of his partner, who had risen to a stand and was dusting himself off.

"Hope we don't trek any dirt on his fancy rug," Starsky replied, humorously and tugged on his leather jacket, throwing Hutch's usual brown one to him, before starting out the door.

The street was fairly quiet, with the exception of a hefty Italian woman calling her grandchildren in before the streetlights came on. As Starsky and Hutch strolled past her, she gave a beaming, rather infectious smile.

"Davey! You're looking far too skinny! Come on over here and I'll fatten you up!" She called out from her stoop, her two little grandchildren ducking under her arm and disappearing into the house.

" Evenin' Mrs. Macaddino!" Starsky called back with his best and brightest smile, "I might hafta take you up on that offah another night, though! My buddy an' I are off to see the new neighbours."

Hutch smiled warmly and lifted his hand in a greeting wave to the cheerful woman. "Ma'am!"

"You bring your nice boyfriend along next time!" Mrs. Macaddino chimed, wiggled her fingers and stepped inside of her house. As her door closed, a whiff of oregano greeted both detectives, who had stopped to stare quizzically at the house.

"Uh... her English isn't very good," Starsky said slowly.

"Well," Hutch mused, "I wouldn't blame her for getting the wrong idea. Two grown men, building a house they intend to live in together. We mostly travel in the same car, have meals together and otherwise spend the majority of our time in each other's company."

"Hutch," Starsky replied, "she calls her grandson's friends 'boyfriends' and he's 7."

Hutch thought quietly for a moment, seemed to accept that and offered a slight shrug.

"English is a very difficult language."

Starsky's lips twitched and eventually spread into a smirk. "Come on, let's go to date night."

Tom Richen's house may have been modest to the average passerby, but compared to Starsky and Hutch's dilapidated shack barely passing as a liveable dwelling, it looked like a mansion. The lawn was neatly kept and all the windows were intact, for one thing. The fresh coat of paint on the front door was just an added bonus.

"Egg-yolk," Hutch said suddenly as they approached the door.

"Huh?"

"Egg-yolk – the colour of the door is egg-yolk."

"Oh. I like it," Starsky agreed.

"My Grandma's favourite," came a voice behind them, startling them both. Tom had emerged from around the side of the house, much as he had done when they first met. Clearly, he enjoyed the element of surprise immensely, as evident by his wide grin. "I saw you boys working over at your house and it inspired me to put a touch of paint on the door this morning. Y'know, pay some kind of homage to my dear old departed Nan."

Starsky smiled thinly, but Hutch, taking the lead, shoved his hands into his pockets and surveyed the door again. "It's a good choice; might have to take a leaf out of your book there, Tom."

"You've got a good eye, Dave."

"_I'm _Dave," Starsky interrupted, "_he's _Ken."

"Oh, sorry, sorry. All you American's look the same," Tom replied jovially and, laughing, lead the way into his house. "C'mon, Monica is already inside. "

As Hutch made to follow, Starsky grabbed his elbow and hissed in his ear, "Told ya he was Canadian," which earned him a roll of the eyes.

The inside of the house was warm and inviting and every bit as flamboyant as the duo had expected. The living room boasted an open-planned seating arrangement, framed by a wall of shelves at varying levels. Each shelf had a collection of trinkets and treasures that Starsky and Hutch had no doubt were plundered. But to keep it out in the open was brazen, if not foolish, and though he seemed juvenile in his body language, behind his eyes was the not altogether hidden intelligence of a shrewd man. Settled upon the three-seater leather sofa, adorned with a cashmere throw-over was Monica. And what a woman Monica was. A rough estimate of her age would put her in her late twenties, early thirties – definitely older than Tom – with burgundy curls that hung low over her shoulders and the curve of her breasts. She was cradling a glass of wine, one slender leg tilted over the other, complimented by her short red number and matching lipstick and pumps.

"Monica, baby, meet Dave and Ken from across the road and down a little," Tom introduced, genially. Monica's dark brown eyes finally lifted and though she smiled, it did not mask her bored and impatient air. As Starsky and Hutch moved in to make their introductions, Tom slunk out of sight.

"Please, don't get up on our account," Starsky said, genuinely and crossed the room in two long strides to extend his hand to Monica. "Pleasure to meet you, Monica. I'm Da-"

Starsky was cut off as Hutch muscled in, taking Monica's outstretched hand and dipping to kiss the back of it. "Enchanté," he mumbled, this time being the one to earn a roll of the eyes from his partner.

"Manners are so rare," Monica replied by way of greeting and took a sip of her wine, considering her words. "Tom tells me you are renovating. You are builders?"

"Oh, something like that," Hutch replied curtly as Tom returned with two cold beers, ensuring that he injected enough vagueness into the answer to snare their host's attention. "It's more of a means of passing the time in between jobs."

Tom smiled warmly and handed a beer each to his two guests, a flick of the hand encouraging them to take a seat, before he settled himself by Monica.

"And what is it that you do?" The woman asked of the two as they seated themselves in respective lounge chairs.

"Sorry, shweetheart, we don't kiss and tell," Starsky flirted, cobalt eyes flicking towards Hutch who met his gaze briefly with his own sky blues.

Tom watched carefully and then broke out into a toothy grin, ruffling a hand through his blonde curls.

"Now, now, baby, it's not smart to ask a man about his business, eh?" He stated, placing a hand on Monica's knee. She looked neither satisfied at the answer, nor impressed by Tom's actions, by the pressing of her lips and empty smile.

"Merely making small talk, darling," She replied. "As for me, I work as a liaison for museums and art collectors."

"Is that how you met Tommy here?" Hutch asked following a long swig of his cold brew.

"Hit the nail right on the head there, pal," Tom piped up and gave Monica's knee a squeeze with one hand, while his free one flourished the air. "Grandma loved antiques and rare artefacts. Monica helped her procure some of her more unique items." He rose to his feet and strode to the shelves, carefully lifting a 6" golden statuette with both hands and holding it out, as though offering it to thin air. Hutch placed his half empty bottle on the coffee table and also stood to take a closer look, a muscle working in the side of his jaw. The statuette was a golden Buddha, his rotund belly and laughing face delicately moulded.

"May I?" Requested Hutch, hands out to receive the Buddha. There was no hesitation as Tom handed it over, his smile confident and hazel eyes unwavering as they sought Hutch's line of vision. But Hutch only had eyes for the golden statuette, examining it as much as possible while maintaining a casual expression. "It's exquisite. Where did you find it?" He asked Monica.

"You just have to look in the right places," she replied, indifferently.

"Your Grammy was a Buddhist, Tom?" Starsky asked.

"She just enjoyed the finer things in life. It runs in the family," Tom answered and collected the Buddha from Hutch's hands.

"Don't we all?" Starsky joked. "I gotta ask though – you've got all your Gramma's stuff, and you're obviously not short on dough, so why this neighbourhood? It's ain't the bottom o'the log but it ain't no suburbia."

Whether it was the steadfast gaze Starsky held or the question itself, Tom seemed mildly disturbed by being asked what some may consider a fairly obvious question. In the second or two it took for him to open his mouth to answer, though, Monica had risen and placed her empty glass by Hutch's beer, clearly taking the reins.

"It's quiet and the neighbours seem decent," she said, simply, her dark eyes fixed on Starsky's. "Living the high life often makes one the target of unsavoury attention."

"Surely you have never had unsavoury attention," Starsky replied smartly as he, too, stood and drifted over to the wall of shelves. This time Monica smiled as genuinely as is humanly possible for her, which admittedly is probably not much, and turned to visually follow where the dark-haired man strolled to.

"Tom keeps me safe," she answered, curtly and with a half shrug of a slender shoulder. This seemed to bring Tom back to his usual character, his smile slipping on as easily as a hat.

"She jests. Monica is really _my _bodyguard. I would be lost without her, eh," Tom said confidently, striding towards Monica and scooping her against his chest.

Hutch averted his gaze and met Starsky's eyes, silently communicating that the time to depart had come. They had stayed for a beer, laid the foundation of curiosity that would hopefully lead them into the depths of the ring of thieves, and without so much as a word spoken between them, decided that Monica wore the pants in that relationship. Starsky placed his empty bottle on one of the shelves.

"I should be on my way," Monica announced, before either Starsky or Hutch had a chance to. "I am meeting John at the Museum tomorrow."

"Museum?" Starsky inquired before he could help himself, both Monica and Tom eyeing him curiously.

"Yes, the Museum of Natural History," Monica replied slowly and then, halting any impending questions, she asked, "Walk me to the door, Tom?"

"Well, we best head off, too. Want to get a good start on the house tomorrow; laying floorboards," Hutch spoke up, quickly.

Monica gathered her bag and coat and walked brusquely to the door, followed in toe by Starsky and Hutch, with Tom bringing up the rear.

"It's been a blast, Tom. Next time we ought to play charades," Starsky said, allowing Monica to step outside before him, as it was the chivalrous thing to do. Tom's face split into an easygoing grin as he stooped to kiss Monica lightly upon the lips. Though she returned the gesture, it was simple and brief; almost scripted.

"Gentleman, it was a pleasure," she spoke to Starsky and Hutch, laid her hand momentarily on Tom's arm and then walked herself to her car. Even in the shadows of dusk, Starsky could identify that car from miles away.

"She drives a red 1972 Jaguar XJ6 and she's worried about unsavoury attention?" He asked incredulously as the engine roared into life, the rumble lessening to a purr as Monica pulled off down the street.

"She sure is something," Tom replied, as though that would explain everything. "Look fellas," he added, the grin slipping ever so slightly, and the focus settling back in his hazel eyes, "I apologise for it being such a short visit, and I know Monica can be a bit prickly. Let me make it up to you – a few of the boys and I are getting together for a bit of a friendly game of cards, if you know what I mean. It would be good to have some fresh blood; bit of a local touch, seeing as we're all out-of-towners. Maybe we can all get to know one another a bit better, eh?"

Starsky glanced to Hutch, who returned the look, only for them to nod in unison; one of the quirks of being in each other's company for such a long time is that one tends to pick up the mannerisms of the other.

"Date night, part two?" Hutch joked and reached out to shake Tom's hand. "When and where?"

Tom grinned widely and gave Hutch's hand a good squeeze, before repeating the gesture with Starsky. "Come by here at say 8pm and I'll take us there in my car. It's not as fancy as your Torino, but it being inconspicuous comes in handy sometimes."

"We'll be there."

"With bells," added Starsky as he and Hutch bid farewell and turned back towards their own house. Once Tom had retreated into his home and was well out of earshot, the two detectives began talking in low, rapid whispers, finishing each other's sentences and voicing unified thoughts. Phase one of their infiltration had gone to plan; Tom was hopefully on his way to inviting them into his little secret, Monica definitely played a big role as liaison and tomorrow night, they just may make some new friends.

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**Chapter 2**

END


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Starsky and Hutch, however much I would like to. Any characters that I have created are fictional and any resemblance to a person living or deceased is purely coincidental. Please excuse any errors about L.A as my knowledge of it is stems from television, Google and playing L.A Noire. Rated T, just to be safe. Genre is Comedy/Drama/Friendship/Crime and possibly later Romance. Since I can't put all those tags in, I'll just say Crime/Friendship and the rest can be figured out by reading.

**Authors Note:** As we get into the crux of the story, things will get a bit more violent, hence the T classification. Also, I like to do a brief recap at the start of each chapter in the form of reports to Dobey. Of course, if I leave things on a cliff-hanger, that may not be possible. But for now, it seems an appropriate thing to do and ties things in a bit neater in case people get lost. Call it my story compass.

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**Friendly Neighbourhood Crime Syndicate**

Chapter 3

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"That's righ', Cap, tonigh'. Reckon me an' Hutch are makin' some headway with this Tom Richen guy. That dame o'his, Monica, is a real piece o'work, though. She's way too high class for a petty thief. Could be she's the one runnin' things, or at least is high up enough to know who is. We'll let ya know how our little game of cards goes tonight. Did ya get anythin' on your end?"

"No records, but if he's from Canada, we haven't got much hope," Dobey replied, exasperatedly.

"Wouldn' be surprised if he's usin' a fake name, though, Cap. Anyway, we'll call ya tomorrow."

"Starsky, you two be careful out there. The top brass is coming down hard on us to clear this up, but I don't want two of my best in body bags. There are some nasty rumours going around. You and Hutch be on your toes."

There was a sharp click of the receiver from Dobey's end and Starsky hung up the phone, taking a quiet moment to lean against the kitchen counter. He considered what they had learnt thus far about a new group of out-of-towners who had robbed a series of religious institutes – Synagogues, churches and temples – as they made their way towards the Museum of Natural History. Huggy had overheard three or so male voices discussing their plans. Tom, the Canadian, was obviously the one storing the goods, leaving the other two anonymous, plus Monica the art liaison who dealt with collectors and museums. Starsky scrunched up his brow and mused his hand through his damp shock of dark curls. It was Monday night, almost time to leave to meet Tom. Monday had seen both detectives back at their house, ripping up and replacing floorboards. As a result, they both slumped back to Hutch's apartment, achy, sweaty each with their own splinters.

"Starsky, what are you doing?" Hutch asked, pulling Starsky away from his reverie, as the taller of the two emerged from the bedroom, drying his hair with his towel.

"Thinkin'."

"In just a towel?"

"I like the breeze."

Starsky grinned over at his partner who had dressed in clean clothes following his shower, while he himself had remained with just a towel around his waist. Hutch rolled his eyes and strolled over to pour himself a glass of water from the sink. As he did so, he spied the distinct circular scars across Starsky's chest and upper abdomen, the pattern mirrored on his back. As with every time he saw the remnants of Starsky's brush with death, Hutch was visited by that profound and aching want to make those scars disappear.

"I doubt this is a formal event, partner. Your birthday suit won't be needed," Hutch replied with a cheeky smile and raised brows, masking his unease behind a large gulp of water and muscling Starsky out of the way so that he could place his class on the counter top.

"The ladies love my birthday suit, but I s'pose you're right," Starsky conceded, feigning disappointment and making his way to Hutch's bedroom, where he had unpacked all his clothes. Similar to his 'Starsky Cupboard', Hutch had also divided his wardrobe and chest of drawers over the years to accommodate his partner whenever he visited. Slowly but surely, they had enough shared things between them that Starsky's selling of his apartment and subsequent moving in with Hutch was effortless.

"Oh, hey, I updated Dobey. Told me I oughta be ashamed for callin' him at dinner!" Starsky yelled out from the bedroom.

"Can't win!" Hutch called back as he checked the time on his old wall clock. "C'mon, Starsk, we should head out."

"Jussasec, jussasec," came Starsky's muffled reply. Eventually, he emerged fully dressed and tucking his wallet into the back pocket of his bell-bottom jeans.

"You know, Starsk, for a guy whose served, you're not exactly punctual," Hutch chided, holding the door open for his partner to exit first.

"Hey, I'm punctual! I have yet ta be late for a date with a bee-utiful woman," Starsky sang. "Except for that one time, when we were on the stakeout and I couldn't make it back in time... oh, and then there was the time when we got locked outta your car..."

"And don't forget the time you completely forgot you had a date in the first place."

"The point is," Starsky persevered, "is that I am more often than not punctual when it comes to damsels."

Hutch chuckled as they made their way to the bright red, white striped Torino and settled themselves inside. As Starsky backed out of the drive, the conversation turned from punctuality to the more serious topic of their meeting with Tom and his 'friends'. To maintain their cover, they had left their primary firearms and badges in the trunk of the Torino. Hutch had blatantly refused to leave his ankle pistol behind.

"Y'know, buddy, things could get hairy tonigh'," Starsky said slowly. His usual joking demeanour had given way to his professional seriousness, deep blue eyes set on the road ahead. Beside him, Hutch slid his lavender tinted glasses on, leant his elbow out the open window and though he didn't reply, the silence spoke volumes on the importance of this initial meeting going smoothly.

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Fifteen minutes later, their darkened house was brought into sharp relief by the Torino's headlights. A few houses down Tom was already waiting, casually leaning against his brown, white-topped, 1975 Chrysler Newport. As Starsky parked the _Striped Tomato_ beside their house, and he and Hutch hopped out, Tom waved them over.

"Fellas, nice of you to join me!" He called and opened the passenger side door and corresponding back door.

"Tom," Hutch greeted, reaching out to shake his hand before sliding into the front passenger seat. Starsky nodded, offered a tight smile and hopped into the back, scooting forward so that he could rest his elbows on the two front seats. Tom, meanwhile, circled around to take the wheel and grinned as he closed his door.

"Hope you're both feeling lucky, eh."

"Hey, you might not know it, but Ken and me – we're the luckies' guys around," Starsky boasted, the hint of a cheeky smile curling his lips at the inside joke.

Hutch chuckled as Tom started the car and got them rolling down the quiet street. "Sure are. So who are we meeting tonight, Tom?"

"Just a few friends of mine from out of town. We're starting up a business here," Tom replied casually, his jovial smile still plastered to his youthful face.

Starsky rested his chin on his arm so that he was closer to Tom, his voice lowering, "Wouldn'ta be ta do with propositioning some art, would it?"

Tom didn't skip a beat and smiled wider. "Don't miss a thing, do you? I knew we'd be on the same page as soon as you noticed my furniture being unloaded the other day."

"Ya really think it was coincidence?" Starsky asked, slyly.

"We received word that you were looking for a bit of local help," Hutch added. "So here we are."

"Word does travel fast here, eh? I'm all for cutting you boys in, but it's really up to the boss."

"Monica?"

Tom laughed silkily. "Monica? No, she's just a go between. I thought you were on top of it all? Look, the less you know, the better. Just enjoy the night!"

The rest of the trip was spent in relative silence, broken only by brief bouts of small-talk, mostly on the house. Eventually, after roughly half an hour of driving, during which the late night shoppers thinned out as the area became notoriously unsafe, Tom pulled his car down a dingy alley. Hutch glanced back at Starsky, the two of them sharing a silent moment; they knew this area well for its prostitution, drugs and violence. Tom, seeming to pick up on their quiet unease merely guided his car out of the alley and into a private car park, his smile not once wavering.

"Here we are, fellas. Time to meet the boys!" He announced as all three of them stepped out of the car. There was a pungent smell of urine and garbage, suspicious stains and an overall feeling of grime as Tom lead the way to a heavy steel door. Without a word, he pushed it open and lead Starsky and Hutch into a dimly lit hallway, at the end of which was a large man guarding the entrance into another room.

"Hey, Goldie! Is everyone here? Brought along our new friends," Tom greeted. As they neared, Starsky and Hutch took in just how large this man actually was. He was almost a clear foot taller than Hutch, with a grizzly face, made up entirely of muscle and attitude.

"Goldie?" Starsky whispered, though was answered immediately by the monstrous man's growl, flashing a set of gold capped teeth. Both Hutch and Starsky smiled thinly and followed Tom through the door.

The room beyond was such a stark contrast to the hallway, it took both the detectives a moment to adjust. The first thing they noticed was the soft tinkling jazz coming from a baby grand in the far corner. The room was well lit with low hanging bulbs, several squashy arm chairs and sofas here and there, each with their own small drinks table. There was a tended bar, poker tables set up near the centre and an overall ambiance of wealth. There were no patrons, with the exception of a group of four men sitting at a poker table. Everyone else, the detectives quietly reckoned worked there. The bartender, pianist and a washed-up looking waitress were all milling about in the background. Two more large men, dressed in old suits and presumably 'bouncers' were standing nearby. Starsky grabbed Tom by the elbow before they could progress far into the room and attract the attention of anyone. For now, no one had bothered to look up.

"Hey, pal, I thought ya said we were jus' meeting some friends for a game o'cards," he whispered.

"Welcome to The Club, boys," Tom replied, lightly. "Oops, get ready for the frisking."

"Frisk-" Hutch and Starsky asked in unison, though were immediately answered by the two burly men lumbering over towards them, completely ignored Tom and approached the undercover duo. There were no words exchanged, just large hands shoving both Starsky and Hutch chest first into the nearest wall.  
"Woah, woah. Hey, buddy, I usually require a first date," Hutch grunted as he was patted down, earning a brow raise from Starsky and a slight smirk.

"These guys have no manners," Starsky replied, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as his legs and buttocks were patted. "One would think we were cops or somethin'."

Tom laughed. "Nothing like that."

As Hutch's security guard reached his legs, he became very still, the man's hands finding his concealed pistol strapped to his ankle. He tugged the hem of his pants up and pulled the gun. There was a split moment of stunned silence, before the guard abruptly shoved the gun into the small of Hutch's back. Starsky reacted instinctively, twisting around and taking a swift side step towards them, his progress hindered by his own guard pinning him back against the wall with a meaty forearm to the throat.

"Grimy bastards!" Hutch's guard growled, squeezing the back of Hutch's neck with his free hand, like pincers. Starsky stilled himself, knowing better than to try and force his attacker off; one move could put a bullet through his partner's spine.

"Hey, pal, jus' hang on a second," he mumbled.

"Hey!" Tom yelled, grabbing the guard by the shoulder. "Relax, Bubba, they're with me!" When 'Bubba' didn't move, except to slowly glance to his shoulder, Tom gave the man's shoulder a firm squeeze and lowered his voice, "They're with me. These are the two fellas I told you about. Y'know, the ones building the house? Not everyone is as accepting as us, eh. Can you blame him for carrying a piece?"

Bubba seemed to consider Tom's words and then met the eyes of his fellow security guard. Simultaneously, they released Starsky and Hutch and stepped away a pace or two.

"Sorry," Bubba murmured and offered him his gun back. "Can't be too careful, can we, Grubba?"

Grubba, Starsky's detail, nodded grimly and smoothed Starsky's shoulders. "Thassrigh'. Sorry, mate, jus' doin' our job."

Hutch swallowed and turned around, chancing a glance at his partner, who was staring fixedly at Grubba and Bubba. "No problem."

"We know how tough it is," Bubba added grimly. "Being a gay man here."

Starsky and Hutch stared blankly and then exchanged hesitant looks.

"But this is a safe place!" Tom hurried. "Now if there's nothing else, these two boys and I have a card game to get to."

"Yeah, c'mon, shweetheart," Starsky brightly replied and snatched Hutch's hand, pulling him from the two burly blokes, much to Hutch's chagrin. Once Bubba and Grubba had gone back to their posts, Starsky released Hutch, offered a sly grin and allowed the taller detective to strap his gun back to his ankle, before following Tom towards the card table in the centre of the room. During their brief encounter, not one of the four men had paid them any mind, as though this were an everyday occurrence.

"Gentleman, meet our two newest friends!" Tom announced with a wide grin and a flourish of his hands towards Starsky and Hutch. "Ken," He pointed at Starsky, "and Dave," to Hutch. The men around the table either nodded or murmured their initial greetings, each waiting to be introduced themselves.

"I'm Ken, _he's _Dave," Hutch corrected, automatically.

"This is Christo," Tom indicated to the first man closest to them. He was young in appearance, perhaps closer to Starsky and Hutch's ages, with dark hair slicked back with gel and murky grey eyes. He seemed pleasant in appearance enough, with his open suit jacket and casual shirt, his squared jaw touched by a black tattoo inked down the left side of his neck and which disappeared beneath his collar.

"Charmed," Christo said in a British accent, though he sounded anything but.

"Bronco's th'name," interrupted the next man in a thick Southern drawl, who was larger and slightly older. He had a prominent Roman nose, beady eyes and had the leathery skin of a man who spent too much time in the sun.

"Bronco," Tom reiterated and then nodded to the man on the other side of him. "Zippy."

Zippy, middle-aged, only offered a quiet grimace. He had light hair, pale, watery eyes that didn't seem to stop moving, and seemed otherwise average in every way. He tucked his arms around his middle and sank into his chair, thoroughly uncomfortable at even being here in the first place.

"And this dashing gentleman is Esky," Tom proclaimed.

"Zippy and Esky?" Starsky repeated with a raised brow.

Esky was smiling casually as he observed the introductions. When it came to his turn, he stood up and shook both Starsky and Hutch's hands. He certainly was dashing with his light brown hair, bright blue eyes and overall air of charm. While Tom was charming in his own right, Esky exuded the air of a man in power. Certainly he was the boss Tom mentioned; the one they'd have to convince.

"It's my family name. Zippy is just... Zippy," Esky explained and took his seat again, gathering a nearby deck of cards and shuffling it. "Please, sit and join us. Tom here has told us that you're both building a house."

"Tom says a lotta things," Starsky jabbed back, though took his seat next to Hutch. There was a murmur of agreement and Tom chuckled, running his fingers through his blonde curls.

"I'm the talent finder," Tom said and leaned back in his chair to snap his fingers in the air, calling a waitress over and ordering a round of beers.

"He also mentioned that you have an eye for detail," Esky continued, unfazed by the repartee, startling blue eyes focussing more on Hutch, who met his line of sight unflinchingly.

"Are we getting to the point?" Hutch asked bluntly and Bronco laughed raucously. Esky simply smiled and called for the cash exchange for chips.

"Deal them damn cards, Esky, so we can get down to business!" Bronco exclaimed. "Zippy's practically wetting himself!"

"One round of betting," Esky explained. "Then we'll all have a good talk. You can tell a lot from how a man plays poker, afterall."

Zippy stared miserably at the table as Esky dealt out the cards, five apiece. Tom took a long swig of his brew and peered down at his cards, tossing in a couple of chips after deciding they were satisfactory. Starsky, meanwhile, was studying his cards with intense concentration.

"C'mon, c'mon," Bronco urged, impatiently. "Didn't yer mother teach you how to play poker?"

Starsky lifted his eyes, his expressive brows following suit, then called the bet with two chips of his own. Hutch chuckled under his breath, pushed his glasses up on his nose and without further hesitation, called as well.

"Esky, if you are going to dish me out bad cards all night again, I may have to shoot you," Christo said, but though he was smiling, something in his tone made the table go quite still. All but Esky that is, who merely smiled back and lazily tapped one chip against the other. "I fold," Christo concluded.

Bronco smirked, met the bet and after Zippy folded and Esky called, Bronco whooped and laid out his cards; trips. "I call and I beat your butts from here to –"

"Not so fast, buddy," Starsky interrupted, "See, my Ma did teach me a lotta things. One o'those things was how to play chumps like you. Read 'em and weep." Starsky spread his cards out, face up, royal flush.

There was a collective groan and Starsky leaned over the table to scoop the small mound of chips towards him. Bronco, having reddened around the ears shot his hand across and seized Starsky's hollowed Star of David, keeping him from lifting his head.

"Should have known you were one of _those_, you smart mouthin' son-of-a-bitch," Bronco hissed. Hutch was on his feet in a split second, his own hand closing tightly around Bronco's wrist.

"Let him go or I swear to God I will break your wrist," Hutch said. Though his tone was calm, there was a dangerous edge that made everyone sit up a little taller. He worked his thumb into the joint of Bronco's wrist by his thumb, finding a pressure point that made the man reel backwards. Starsky sat back, lips pressed tightly together, and reached out to tug at Hutch's sleeve.

"S'alright, partner," he mumbled and as Hutch sat down there was a moment of stunned silence, broken only when Tom released a high pitch whistle.

"Are these guys great, or what? Told you they'd impress, eh."

Bronco rubbed his wrist and cracked out a grin; even Christo spared an appreciative smile.

"I apologise," Esky piped up. "Tom had said that you were both observant, witty and after watching your behaviour at your house, figured you'd both know your way in a fight."

"Oh ,really now?" Starsky asked, humourlessly. "So that was all just a bit set up, huh?"

"Hope y'all don't think me some sorta bigot. My wife is Jewish, after all; her Father had a fit when she said she was marrying a Christian!" Bronco laughed raucously. It was so infectious, that both Starsky and Hutch couldn't stop themselves grinning.

"Alright, so you've sussed us out. We've sussed you guys out a bit too. How about we stop beating around the bush and get to it?" Hutch said.

Esky considered him curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. "I am not that trusting, gentlemen. You must understand that I am a business man. We are certainly in need of extra hands, particularly from locals. However, you'll need to prove that you're to be trusted."

"And wha's in it for us?" Starsky asked. "Ken and me haven' even said we're helpin' you out."

"How does big money sound?" Christo asked, sarcastically.

"What do you want us to do?" Hutch cut in and Esky glanced to his known associates, who each nodded at him with the exception of Zippy.

"Two things. First, you are to show us your skill in acquiring a certain item for us from the Museum of Natural History," Esky explained. Starsky and Hutch frowned, considering what Esky had just told them. If the Museum of Natural History was merely a way to test their skills, then they were still in the dark as to the real target of this group. "Tom tells me you have met Monica. She'll fill you in on the details. And secondly –"

Christo was the one to speak this time, casually interrupting Esky, "- It's Zippy's last day with us today." Something in Christo's tone made both Starsky and Hutch look up. Starsky felt Tom go very still next to him and noticed that he was holding his breath, quietly anticipating. Esky seemed unconcerned at the interruption and shuffled the cards, dealing them out once more. Once done, he gathered his own cards and looked them over, his face impassive as he threw in a couple of chips. Tom, whose turn it was next, just continued to stare at Christo. When it didn't look like the game was going to progress, Esky sighed.

"Esky, this isn't how it was meant to go," Tom said hesitantly, finally finding his voice.

"I didn't want to tell you, because I knew you'd get upset, Tom, but it seems Zippy here has been playing three fields. These two here are going to be taking his place."

Christo leaned back, swung his arm around the back of Bronco's chair and cocked a gun aimed at Zippy's head. Starsky and Hutch stiffened, immediately on guard. Their minds began to click, ten to the dozen, each one weighing up the pros and cons of physically intervening; possibly blowing their cover and landing them in body bags. Dobey would have a fit.

"Esky, we spoke about this," Tom replied with a nervous laugh. "Zippy is our agent inside the Giordano family."

"The L.A Mafia?" Starsky piped up, eyes wide. Hutch frowned, dipping forward slightly and mutely mapping the time it would take for him to retrieve his pistol.

"He's also," Esky carried on, despite the interruption, "been leaking information to the Feds. How else did they catch onto our shipment?"

"2 mil in Horse!" Bronco yelled suddenly, startling Hutch away from his own gun.

"Hey pal," Hutch interrupted, gathering his senses again and addressing Christo. "You squeeze that trigger and you're gonna destroy your friend's eardrums."

Christo considered Hutch curiously, though didn't remove his arm. Zippy looked like he was going to puke, but as of yet hadn't made so much as a squeak. He just continued to dart his eyes here and there.

"Could you let me get out of the way first you stupid bastard?" Bronco requested, irritably.

"Esky," Tom quietly implored, ignoring the banter. "Killing Zippy will only bring the heat down on us."

"We're on the verge of something big here," Esky replied slowly, as though that would explain everything. "Bronco, kindly tell the pianist to play us something more upbeat."

Bronco groaned at the prospect of missing out on the action and slid his chair back, without consideration for Christo's arm. He lumbered towards the piano, which was still tinkling out a gentle jazz number. During the tense conversation, both detectives had noted that the other inhabitants away from the table still paid them no attention; they mindlessly went about their own business without a concern. Christo followed Bronco's movements reproachfully, but as Zippy squeaked out a sigh of relief, he narrowed his eyes and aimed his gun back at the pale man.

"Hey, buddy, at least speak up for yourself!" Starsky abruptly cried out at Zippy.

"He would if he had a tongue left, and if he wasn't as high as the Empire State," Christo said and casually checked his cards with his free hand. "Like everyone else in this joint."

"Do it," Esky ordered, but before Christo could pull the trigger, Tom stood up so quickly that his chair toppled backwards. Starsky and Hutch stood too, fully expecting their strange comrade to launch himself across the table. They couldn't have been more wrong.

"I'll do it. Not here where there are witnesses, but I will do it."

"Tom, think abou' this," Starsky murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

Esky chuckled, though it was void of any mirth. "Tom, I like you; you are good at what you do, but you are no killer."

"I'll do it," Tom insisted. "I'll bring you back his finger or an ear as proof."

Christo stared intently at Zippy, who had gradually begun to sink in his chair, his body wracked with shakes. However, when he spoke, it was directed at Esky. "Anyone can chop an ear off a live man."

"Yes," Esky mused, "but Tom isn't as sadistic as you are. He'll kill him quick, won't you Tom?"

Tom nodded stiffly and rounded the table, grabbing Zippy by the upper arm. Christo didn't lower his gun until Esky gave him a stern look, and even after he only conceded reluctantly.

"I want the proof, Tom," Esky restated. "I want his left hand. Give him your gun, Christo. You have others."

Christo swore under his breath but handed over his gun to Tom, who promptly pressed it into Zippy's ribs.

"Sorry, but you'll have to find your own way back," Tom said to Starsky and Hutch. "Ken, Dave... Hope you fellas don't think less of me, eh," he joked, though even he didn't find it funny. "I'll drop by in a couple of days."

"Tom," Hutch warned, though both he and Starsky did not move as Tom lead Zippy out of the room and into the hallway beyond. As the door clicked shut, Starsky made the first move to follow, though was halted in his progress by Bronco's reappearance at the table and a bright funky tune from the piano.

"Don't y'all do anything dumb now, like try to interfere."

"Speak to Monica," Esky said, disregarding their anxious expressions. "Tom will get in touch with her for you. Get your jobs done satisfactorily and you'll both be spending your retirement swimming in dough. You'll be the happiest couple around."

"Fine," Hutch mumbled, tapped Starsky on the back, and then hurried out of the room. They didn't care what it looked like; didn't care that the creeps at the poker table may follow them through the dank hallway, past Goldie and into the dingy parking area. All that mattered was that they reached Tom before he did something he truly regretted. If they blew their cover, then fine, at least they could save a life; what did it matter if the guy they were supposedly saving was a rat and a criminal?

Starsky and Hutch shoved the last door open and staggered into the dark parking lot, the pungent smell of urine and garbage assailing their senses. At the other end of the alley, they could just make out Tom's tail lights as he turned into the main street and out of sight, the life of the man known as 'Zippy', very possibly already extinguished.

"We gotta call it in, Hutch; get an APB out," Starsky panted, forcing his voice low.

"I know, partner. This just got a whole lot bigger than us."

.

* * *

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**Chapter 3**

END


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